


lonely without you

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: just a dumb lil fic exploring your friendship with jason after he returns from the dead and kinda becomes your accidental roommate





	lonely without you

**Author's Note:**

> i love one (1) dumb boi
> 
> thank you for reading, my loves! xx

The first time Jason fell asleep in your bed, it had been unintentional. His patrols that night had ended in a rain of bullets, and although what blood was shed in that fight wasn’t necessarily his own, the man still had enough bruises and a dislocated shoulder to tire him the hell out. Ignoring your insistent pleas, brushing off the very thought of a hospital, Jason sat on the edge of your bed, and _snapped_ his own damn shoulder back into place.

And then, he was tapped out.

You were left to stew in your puzzlement – how the _hell_ was this guy even real, did that not _hurt like shit_ , and god, how were you two even friends?!

Then, as quiet as possible, you had attempted to pull some blankets out from under him to take to the couch. Although your friendship was long and filled with history enough to write a book on, sleeping in the same bed together wasn’t a norm anymore. Once, when he had lived with Bruce Wayne, there was always enough room in Jason’s bed to fit at least four people, without even topping-and-tailing. On your single bed, one of you were bound to be pushed off sometime in the night. And that was something you did _not_ want to risk.

You were grumbling within a few seconds. Under all that muscle your blankets barely budged. Huffing, you wished the man was still that scrawny kid you remembered from a childhood long gone.

But still, no one could say you weren’t perseverant.

It wasn’t until your tugs became near violent that Jason awoke, turned to look at you with a glare – “Asshole,” you might have said, if he weren’t so injured and fatigued, “this is _my_ bed, not yours remember?” – and tugged the blanket, still gripped tight in your hands, so hard that you toppled over on top of him.

“Stop before I make you stop.” His speech was slurred from sleep. “Go the fuck to sleep, [Y/N].”

You grunted in annoyance now, and shoved him. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Todd. If your heavy ass would just scoot over a little, I could get one of my blankets and finally go to sleep in the living room.”

He seemed to consider you a moment. Blue eyes now dark as he fought to stay awake. Then, he was holding you, almost smothering you to death beneath him as he snuggled you a little too close for comfort.

“Just sleep here, dumbass.”

He was already almost drifting back to sleep. An awful predicament when you could barely breathe under his weight.

“The hell, Jay! Get off!”

He chuckled, amused; you would have hit him if you could move your arms.

“Go to sleep, [Y/L/N].” And like that, he was gone again.

You glared up at the ceiling. _Great,_ you thought. _Now I’ll get_ no _sleep at all._

He started coming to your apartment more often after that night. Even without bruises, cuts, bullet wounds – nothing to self-treat while bleeding out in your bathroom as you’d fret with crossed arms in the doorway – he’d show up. Now he’d just climb in through the window with a little, “Sup?”, take off his helmet, and head to your room. “I’m gonna take a nap.” It was so casual that you couldn’t even protest if you wanted.

At first, it kind of irked you. Jason had his quirks that at times frustrated you beyond belief, but only if you were around him for extended periods of time; which, now that he seemed obsessed with your apartment, was suddenly _all the time_. It was natural between the closest of friends to sometimes hate each other’s guts, after all. Sometimes, he’d even complain that you didn’t have enough security in your place for living alone in Gotham – which only ever led to bickering over the smallest of things, including how he left  spoons in the sink for days without washing them, or how your taste in cereals is just appalling and he hates how you won’t let him cook in your kitchen (“You won’t even clean one spoon, Jay. _One spoon._ You think I’d let you make a mess of my kitchen? Back off, Todd, I’m not cleaning after you again.”).

Then, you came to accept it. He even started coming back with milk and any other groceries you might text him to pick up along the way. Always climbing in through the window – a tradition he didn’t seem willing to break.

It had been a month and a half since he started sleeping over.

“You have dark circles under your eyes,” he said.

“You pushed me off the bed last night.” You weren’t mad.

Waking up to Jason deep in a nightmare you’d never dare ask him about was too sobering of an experience to ever be upset with him.

You had been to his funeral. Visited his grave often enough for the memory of his death to still feel fresh in your head. But now he was here, sitting on your couch with the building’s stray cat on his chest, not in his coffin – Jason Todd was very much alive, though, perhaps a little beaten and blue.

From the tense shrug of his shoulders you knew he was aware he had been having a nightmare. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t had one sooner. “Sorry,” he murmured.

The oven was warm when you opened it. Heat spewed forth in a wave and lifted your hair back. Your back was to him when you said, softly, “It’s okay, Jay.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, straightening, you turned to him and smiled, “I’m craving your spaghetti, to be honest…”

Jason understood. He lifted a brow. “Sometimes you don’t even let me use your microwave.”

You shrugged, then pointed a finger at him with narrowed eyes, “We’ll trial this. But if you mess up...”

It was stupid; you, a civilian whose skills with even a knife sometimes proved a failure in the kitchen, could not fight the damn Red Hood and expect to win.

You were smiling even as you said it.

Jason jumped up, cat still in his arms. “Step back. Let the professional show you how it’s done.”

The slap of a wooden spoon against his arm sounded ridiculously loud in the apartment. “Bitch, it’s my kitchen. Don’t make me Gordon Ramsay you.”

“Funny. Gordon Ramsay has big dick energy.”

“And I don’t?”

“Nah.”

He laughed and took the next hit with a grin. “Nice moves, [Y/L/N]. You could make a pretty decent sidekick.”

“Like hell. You’d be _my_ sidekick.” You jumped up on the counter to watch Jason work.

“I’m done being a sidekick,” he mumbled. There was a sudden air about him that screamed of a vulnerability you seldom saw, often covered up by snarky comments and quick humour.

You didn’t dare ask why, or even when he had been a sidekick. Hell, you never even asked him how he came to be the Red Hood when he climbed in through your window that first time. You’d thought he was the strangest (most extra) burglar ever, until he took his helmet off, and even with that grown up face, you still recognised his blue eyes. Even as children you swore he was keeping secrets from you. Back then, you had asked and asked and asked, and had come to learn that, sometimes, the truth was just out of reach, and you’d have to wait for it – even if it meant waiting a _long_ time.

So, you punched his arm lightly, smiled when he absently pulled the material of your pyjama bottoms at your knee, and said gently, “Yeah. That’s fine. You’d make a hell of an annoying sidekick, anyway.”

It took a while, but, finally, he smiled – though, it was more of a scoff. “You’d be lucky to have me.”

It became such an integral part of your life – having him around – that when he stopped coming, it was odd. His absence stuck out like a sore thumb. The bed had too much room all of a sudden. Spooning out peanut butter became such a lonely memory that you started eating it from a butter knife instead (sometimes chucking it down into the sink to clean later, and grumbling that Jason Todd had become a bad influence). Without him, even the cat stopped visiting your fire escape.

Having to get your own milk became such an irritating chore when you’d gotten so used to Jason getting it for you. The TV at the counter was tuned in to the news whenever you’d visit the store, and all the fresh crap about drug-lords and gun dealers, vigilantes and captured Arkham inmates had you biting your nails in apprehension when you’d go to pay. Jason hadn’t turned up in so long that sometimes you worried he was... gone. _Again_.

That night, when you grabbed milk and bread and the bag of spicy chips Jason had made you obsessed with, the woman at the register seemed nervous.

“You all right?” Concerned, you watched her gaze dart to the TV screen.

“I’m fine, dear.” She wasn’t, but you didn’t push. She adjusted her glasses on her nose as she waited for you to scan your card. “ _I’m_ fine. But it’s just...”

You glanced up, and she gestured to the screen. **ESCAPED ARKHAM INMATE. REPORTS SUGGEST IT IS THE JOKER.**

“ _Fuck_.”

That was _not_ good news. He was the maddest of the mad, the very manifestation of chaos.

“I’d call it an early night, ma’am. Just in case.”

She was nodding. It didn’t take much convincing for her to close up. You walked out together, and you watched her lock the door before running home.

You were in bed scrolling through your phone when the first _thud_ came from the living room. Holding your breath, you listened close. Again, another _thud_. You were dialling 911, just in case, when the door to your bedroom creaked open, and you screamed, the sound causing the figure in the doorway to flinch and drop a red object to the floor.

“Shit, [Y/N], do I really _look that bad_?” Jason trudged inside, feet heavy in each step towards your bed. He flopped down beside you. “I’m gonna take a nap, okay?”

“It’s eleven.”

“An extended nap.”

“So like... sleep?”

Jason grunted. You noticed there was an ugly bruise forming fresh on his cheekbone. You frowned at it.

“Anything dislocated tonight? Broken? Cut?”

He let out a breath. “I think a rib is broken. Maybe two.”

“Jay, what the fu—”

He slapped his hand blindly over your mouth – it hit your nose more, a finger almost poking into your eye. “Ssh. God your voice is annoying sometimes. I’ll go see Alfred tomorrow, [Y/N]. If it makes you shut up, I _promise_ I will. Now... go the fuck to sleep.”

Your arguments died on your tongue at the relaxation of his facial muscles, each tense pull slipping away, until he looked as if he were in a state of peace. It felt wrong to stress him out any more. You quieted even the question of why he would go see _Alfred_ , his childhood guardian’s butler of all people, to tend to his wounds. But when you tugged at the blanket beneath him, he opened an eye, and frowned at you.

“The couch is uncomfortable, [Y/N]. Trust me, I know.”

You huffed, tugged harder. “I’m... _trying..._ to tuck you _..._ in.”

He lifted himself up so suddenly that you fell backwards off the bed. His chuckles would have irked you if you honestly hadn’t missed him so damn much.

“Screw you, Todd.” But still, you got up and threw the blanket over him. “Where’d you get the shiner, by the way?”

You noticed his jaw clench. “Batman.”

You froze. “Huh? Jesus, what did you do?”

“I tried to kill The Joker.”

You relaxed, but only a little. “Oh. I see.”

“You’re not mad? Uncomfortable? You’re not afraid of me?”

“Nah...” Crawling in beside him, you began to tuck him in. “I know well enough the hell you get caught up in as a vigilante. That Bat-guy doesn’t use guns. But you do, Jay. So, I kinda knew...”

Jason went quiet under the blanket. His hair was so dark that it painted the white of your pillow. When his eyes creased in thought, it reminded you of childhood sleepovers at Wayne Manor, when he’d think so hard sometimes while in bed talking that you’d sometimes lose him for a couple of minutes to his head. He shifted, then pushed the blanket down to his waist, armour still on, gun holstered at his side.

“There’s a lot, [Y/N], so much to tell you. So much that you don’t know. That I’ve hid from you.”

You’d waited. All those years you had waited for this moment – for your best friend to confide in you, to unburden himself of some of his pain, to truly trust you. It had finally come to that.

You pulled the blanket back up to his face. His words were muffled when you hugged his head (A mumble – “Your soap smells nice.”; “It’s new. You can use it next time.”), careful not to disturb any broken ribs.

“Sleep,” you said. “There’s time for that later, Jay. For now, sleep, you dumbass.”

**Author's Note:**

> this could have gone on forever, tbh. but i figured i should really end it.


End file.
